UNIT UK 19: Miss Smith
by ComsatAngel
Summary: Sarah Jane Smith is missing, presumed abducted. With no ultimatum or suspects, UNIT begins to suspect the Master may be involved ...


UNIT UK 19

Sarah Jane Smith was missing.

Now, normally the news that a journalist was missing would not bother UNIT, especially as we tend to be on bad terms with members of the media. Sarah, however, was the only journalist to date who had managed to get official accreditation to UNIT. I normally described her as the official "archivist", which sounds more official that Person Able And Allowed To Snoop.

'Find her!' was the Brig's order. Sensible instruction. Sarah earned her keep and kudos at our Aylesbury HQ by typing up endless reams of official paperwork, which meant she knew everything going on there.

Since she was involved with UNIT, she got the fringe benefits. In case of kidnap, abduction or illegal restraint, these are quite major things. Airports and ports were put under discreet surveillance; MI5 put out feelers; Special Branch were alerted; a rather nasty photograph of Sarah went out to all major police stations; her friends and colleagues were quizzed. More pertinently, Pagoda Five were put on five minutes notice. Pagoda what? Quite.

I'd heard the involvement of the last whilst presenting a report to the Brig in his office. No sooner had I gone into details of which reports were overdue than the phone rang and the Brig took the call, motioning me to wait for a minute.

'Hello? Peter? Yes, this is Alistair. Listen, I need one of your CREW teams on five-minute notice to go. Our resident journalist has gone missing. Yes, definitely foul play. Pagoda Five? Thank you, Peter. I'll call you if and when they're needed.'

He looked up at me with a wry expression.

'Yes? You had something else to add, John?'

Oh no John didn't have anything else to add, though John did wonder what a "CREW" was, John being a nosey fellow at the best of times.

'No, sir. Merely permission to investigate further. Kapitan Komorowski is asking all sorts of questions about what's going on.'

Lethbridge-Stewart sighed. I didn't wonder, he'd loudly announced that the visiting Polish UNIT officer be given every facility, with no excuses.

'Oh, go on, then. You can be our roving eye. Report back here every three hours.'

He got a splendidly precise salute for that, and a stamping smartness in my exit from his office.

I took Komorowski off to visit Sarah's bijou residence in Knightsbridge. Bluebottle were there already.

'You were going to tell us about this when?' I asked the resident sergeant standing sentry outside the door, showing my pass.

He did a double-take.

'UNIT!' he gurgled, looking over my shoulder as if expecting waves of aliens to be at our heels.

'We're here because the resident of this flat is a member of UNIT,' I explained. 'Personal assistant to our Special Scientific Advisor.'

'You'd better go in, sir,' he said, pushing the door wider. A passing glance showed it had been opened up with a crowbar. Not subtle, then.

Special Branch arrived minutes after us, alongside a couple of grey men in suits who didn't introduce themselves, so were immediately pegged as MI5.

I took a good look around Sarah's flat, feeling unpleasantly like a voyeur. A big wicker chair, shelves full of books, décor from Habitat, and a big oak table in the centre of the living room. On one wall, framed, was the open letter from Prime Minister Wilson that ensured Sarah got access to the previously inaccessible. A cup of tea had spilled on the table, the tea long since curdled, alongside an open paper and several paperback books.

The stool under the table lay on it's side.

'You can work it out, can't you?' asked the craggy-faced man from Special Branch. I'd met him before, at a liaison meeting at New Scotland Yard.

'Inspector Sewell, isn't it?'

He graced me with a nod.

'Lieutenant Walmsley and friend - ' before I interrupted.

'Captain, actually. I've gone up in the world. This is Kapitan Komorowski, on secondment from UNIT in Poland.'

Kapitan Komorowski gave a brisk salute.

'They levered the front door open, while the victim was sitting at the table. Probably jumped up in surprise, knocked over the stool and cup.'

Another uniformed officer indicated the kitchen.

'The floor tiles are wet through, and the kettle's empty and on it's side.'

Perhaps our Sarah had chucked a kettle of boiling water into the attacker's face?

Inspector Sewell went over the flat with a uniformed sergeant. Nothing missing, including a diamond necklace kept in a vase in Sarah's bedroom.

'That would be her aunt's, I think,' I explained.

'Did she keep any files or other information about UNIT here?' asked one of the grey suits.

'Definitely not! The arrangement is that her UNIT work stays at Aylesbury. Her freelance stuff is done here, and whatever articles the Metropolitan commissions her for.'

A search taking twenty minutes, that failed to turn up any UNIT-related information at all persuaded them that I spoke the truth.

The Inspector took me to one side.

'Any idea who would have done this?'

If Sarah was a normal journalist, then the culprits might be foreign nationals, much like my serious-looking Polish sidekick.

'No. If any other country wants to know how UNIT – wait a minute. Kapitan, what would the Polish security services do if they wanted to know how UNIT UK operates?'

Komorowski replied instantly.

'Petition headquarters in Geneva for a Good Practice briefing, through UNIT in Poland. Generally a reply comes through within twenty four hours.'

Sewell tutted in exasperation. Scratch one motive.

'Okay, does she do investigative journalism, the kind that annoys powerful people?'

Hardly. Her most recent freelance work had been for Cosmo and the New Statesman. I poured cold water on that idea, too.

'So. She's not rich, famous, powerful, well-connected or too nosey. No reason for anyone to kidnap her,' summarised the Inspector.

The uniformed sergeant came up to report to Inspector Sewell.

'Ah. Sir, a person from Education Welfare on a truant sweep reported three men bundling a woman who answer's the victim's description into a car.'

Sewell looked at the sergeant intently.

'When? When, sergeant?'

The man in uniform looked embarrassed.

'Yesterday, sir.'

Sewell's brows drew together in anger. I must have looked pretty annoyed, too.

'Yesterday! Bloody hell, what took the Met so long to notify us!'

'Ah – they didn't think she worked for UNIT, sir, her being a journalist and all.'

Sewell pointed at the sergeant.

'I am going to take a bite out of someone's arse over this, sergeant Moore. Count on it, bloody well count on it!'

He motioned Komorowski and I away, out into the hallway.

'Bloody Met incompetents. Sorry about this. 'He passed me a card with his number on. 'I'm going back to the office. If you think of any possible leads, give me a ring.'

The grey men from MI5 came out to speak with us, looking at Komorowski from the corner of their eyes.

'A lack of leads or motives, eh?' asked the elder of them. 'I take it you know the young lady well?'

'More than a passing acquaintance. Well enough to be seriously worried about her.'

He nodded.

'Well, be assured that she's still in the country.'

I sighed.

'It's a shame they didn't try this with Jo Grant.'

Both agents made interested faces.

'She'd have shot them. Or beaten them unconscious. Licenced to carry a firearm for self-protection and a brown-belt in Shotokan.'

Komorowski looked concerned en route to our Landrover.

'What is unique about Sarah Smith nobody else can claim?' he asked.

'Female journalist attached to and accredited with UNIT.'

Shake of head from my Polish friend.

'No, no, not that. I was thinking that she is assistant to the Doctor.'

Now, that made me nearly stumble in mid-stride down the staircase.

'Kensington, good Kapitan,' I told him. 'We're off to call the Brig – the Brigadier.'

Once parked in the underground car park, I ushered Komorowski up the stairs to the first floor, and made a beeline for the nearest phone.

'Show the Kapitan the footprints,' I called to a passing khaki clerk. 'Hello? Duty Officer Aylesbury? This is Captain Walmsley, I need to speak to the Brigadier urgently.'

With a bit of hemming and hawing, I got the adjutant, then Lethbridge-Stewart himself.

'Sir, Kapitan Komorowski put his finger right on the reason Sarah may have been abducted. Not for any value she has in her own person, but as an assistant to the Doctor.'

A silence came from the other end. The Brig was thinking.

'You're right, John. None of us saw that. Too close, too damn close to the problem. Okay, get yourself back to Aylesbury, we have a meeting with interested parties.'

Komorowski was leaning out of a window, squinting at the road below.

'It is true!' he told me, getting back to our transport. 'Big footprints in the roadway. From the dinosaur.'

I told him to look left when we drove out of Kensington, and pointed out the doorway where Doctor Kelly and I were trapped by a pack of hunting dinosaurs.

"Interested parties" turned out to be Inspector Sewell and the suits from MI5, along with a severe-looking chap in camouflage fatigues and his stoney-faced adjutant, looking as if he'd rather be out drowning puppies in a sack.

Unusually, the duty staff in the Guard Room didn't know who these last two were. The Brig had signed them in under his name as "Visiting Guests". They both merely glanced at me, and at Komorowski with a lot more interest.

Lethbridge-Stewart introduced people, except our two mystery guests, who were "visiting from Bredbury Lines", whatever that meant. Kapitan Komorowski pursed his lips and nodded very briefly, implying he knew more than I did.

'Interesting news from our teacher witness,' began the Inspector. 'She said one of the three men involved in the abduction looked to have a bright red face. As if scalded.'

My guess about the kettle must be right on the money, then: Sarah managed to get to the kitchen and chuck boiling water over an assailant. Good for her!

'What's the new slant you have?' asked the senior officer in uniform.

'We suspect that our journalist was abducted not because of her own value but rather because she is the PA to our Special Scientific Advisor,' began the Brigadier.

'Oh yes. "Doctor John Smith",' said the adjutant, smiling without humour.

'Quite,' said the Brig, not pausing to pay any attention. 'If he were able, then the Doctor would be moving heaven and earth to find Sarah Jane. Nobody here could stop him.'

'He's currently _hors de combat_, I understand?' enquired the senior MI5 agent, to show he was well-informed and could speak French.

'In a coma,' said the Brig, in the silence Komorowski and I left.

'There hasn't been any ultimatum from the kidnappers,' pointed out the adjutant.

'If the Doctor were able-bodied, he wouldn't wait for that. Given his – ah – level of technology, he would be tracking them right now.'

There it was – Sarah kidnapped to act as bait for the Doctor.

'I think we've excluded the possibility of Sarah being kidnapped for what she knows. What is the likelihood of hostile forces trying to capture the Doctor, with Sarah as bait?'

Komorowski had doodled a few scribbles on his notepad. He aligned it so that I could read, and I read "SAS" with an arrow pointing at the unidentified soldiers.

'Anyone trying to capture the Doctor would have their hands full,' I commented, unasked for but entirely accurate. 'Nor can you force him to tell tales about – ah – advanced technology.'

'Kapitan Komorowski, what do you think the chances are that a foreign agency, a hostile power, is seeking to kidnap Doctor John Smith?' asked the adjutant.

The Pole chewed the inside of his mouth and looked at the ceiling before replying.

'Slim to none. For one thing, what does anyone know about the Doctor? Very little. Certainly not enough to venture assault and abduction and kidnap.' He waved his hand expansively at us all. 'You here in Britain may know more than anyone else, but from what I know, there is little reason to try and kidnap the Doctor.'

The younger and less-lined MI5 agent spoke up.

'We've been monitoring embassies and their staff. A procession of Warsaw Pact personnel have been making their way into the Soviet embassy, emerging later looking rather worn. The consensus is that nobody on the Soviet side has tried to target the Doctor.'

Komorowski perked up at this.

'The Kremlin takes the Doctor very seriously indeed. I think he has helped the Russians at certain times in the past, and for that they regard him as very, very hands-off.'

The Brig spoke up again.

'Bill Filer, from the CIA's Special Chronometry Team, has guaranteed that the US has no involvement. In fact, he has offered the detached service of his station's UK personnel to help find Sarah.'

This information was allowed to settle.

'Third parties? Third World powers with an axe to grind or seeking to embarrass UNIT?' asked the senior MI5 man.

I began to feel bored with all this chatter. This was how a Captain operated? Give me the adrenaline surge of a lieutenant kicking arse and turning over stones. Lieutenant Nick Munro was out cruising the streets of London with the Assault Platoon; an armoured car and three Bedfords packing enough firepower to demolish Centre Point.

Kapitan Komorowski coughed politely.

'One other thing I felt. This seems to be an amateur operation. If – hypothetically – the GRU had abducted Miss Smith, they would not have allowed a witness to see them, nor would they have had a member scalded.'

Our two un-named guests took this criticism seriously, leaning in toward each other and whispering, despite the Brig's gimlet-eyed stare at them.

When the meeting finished, our consensus was that a third party – a nation like Syria or Libya, or terrorists like the IRA or PFLP – had used local muscle to abduct Sarah, preparatory to decoying the Doctor into an ambush. A wafer-thin premise, which held sway in lieu of anything better.

'Will you stay for lunch, Peter?' asked the Brig of the senior officer, whom Komorowski seemed to think was from the SAS. 'Simple but hearty fare, plenty of it.'

The other man checked his watch.

'Arse! Sorry, Alistair. We have to be in Downing Street in less than an hour. I'd like to stay – we haven't had a proper chinwag over drinks since Aden, have we? Tell you what, you ring Bredbury Lines and arrange an RV and we'll do you a day's tour. Bring one of your bright young things along. I'd like to hear more of what you people have been up to – stealing our thunder!'The last sentence was spoken with a ferocious grin. The adjutant remained stoney-faced, probably thinking about those puppies in a sack, and saluted us on the way out.

Once back in my own room, I rang Harry Sullivan, our Medical Officer.

'Harry – I need your urgent medical advice.'

'Two aspirins, bed rest, no alcohol, and the ladies won't complain any more.'

'Harry! I am now your superior officer! You need to treat me with respect!'

'Whoops! Sorry John, I thought you said "bed-ical" advice. That's what the euphemism at the old RN Shore Establishment used to be for - '

'Enough of that, you nautical buffoon! Tell me, if I were to get a kettle full of boiling water chucked in my face at point blank range, would I need to go to hospital?'

A moment's silence hung on the phone. Komorowski looked at me with some puzzlement.

'Yes,' replied Harry. 'For severe scalds - in fact second-degree burns, possible blindness, not to mention intense pain. There would be swelling of subcutaneous tissue, causing functional if not actual impairment of vision, possible partial blocking of the nasal airways, severe swelling of the lips with subsequent inability to talk or eat. Very nasty state of affairs indeed, old chap. Why do you ask?'

'A possible lead for the disappearance of Sarah.'

'Oh, I already checked hospital admissions across London. Nothing remotely close. Which is a worry on two levels, actually, you know.'

'You mean Sarah might have killed him?'

'Oh, no, not that. Injuries like that would need hospital treatment, debridement, ophthalmic specialists, skin grafts at the worst. So either the gang this fellow belongs to have stopped him from going to hospital, or he doesn't need to.'

Special Branch were also keeping an eye on hospital admissions, across the whole country, not merely London.

So there it was – a whole lot of people searching and watching, with little in the way of information, and nothing visible to the public at large.

The breakthrough came because of a contact I'd made in the past, which I'd like to take credit for, but can't because the connection simply didn't occur to me.

The Kapitan and I were throwing ideas around about how potential ambushers might try to ambush the Doctor. If he had TARDIS in full working order then the kidnappers were goosed: it could land anywhere, including right next to Sarah -

'External call for Captain Walmsley,' said the speaker on my phone. I picked it up and heard a cultured East End voice.

'Captain Walmsley. This is Mister Smart here.'

Instantly my mind jumped back to meeting him in a restaurant. A bit of checking-up afterwards confirmed what I'd guessed – he was a major league mover and shaker, having moved out of organised crime because he'd acquired enough wealth. Not a man to get on the wrong side of.

'Mister Smart. What can I do for you?' I asked, puzzled as to why he'd call me at Aylesbury. Or why he'd call me at all.

'It's what I can do for _you_. I understand a certain young female journalist has been kidnapped?'

Well-informed!

'Yes,' I replied, shortly, before remembering that he wasn't fond of men who mistreated women. 'Sarah Jane Smith. Currently we have zero leads.'

This was a bit bold, but only a bit. Mister William Smart knew a lot that he didn't let on.

'Well, you might try having a nosey at a certain "Greek Charlie" and his gang, who usually hang around the Palm Tree Club. I asked around my business connections and they agreed Charlie is behaving very oddly these days. One of his gang seems to have fallen asleep under a sun lamp, too.'

Big loud alarm bells began to ring, loudly and alarmingly.

'Thank you!' I blurted.

'My pleasure,' replied Mister Smart, ringing off.

I rang the Brig immediately to pass the info on, then Inspector Sewell at Special Branch. He had me repeat the information again, writing it down. He rang back in minutes.

'"Greek Charlie" is the slang for one Costas Gabrielides. Middle-rank villain, a Cypriot with convictions for armed robbery, GBH and theft. We're going to pay a visit to his home address. How the hell did you find out about him!'

'Contacts. William Smart.'

The Inspector whistled.

'Mixing with the big boys, eh! Alright, Captain. Speak to you later.'

The Brig came to see us about twenty minutes later. Gabrielides' home had been stormed by Pagoda Five, and his wife discovered in bed with the plumber. Greek Charlie wasn't there. His wife didn't know where he was, the evil cold-blooded womanising swine, except to say that she didn't care if he never showed up again, the icy monster, and if he happened to drop down dead she would come and do the polka on his grave. The plumber, a strapping young man, was pale and apprehensive about his future, as well he might be.

The Palm Tree Club, then.

'I wonder, would it be possible to observe the operation?' enquired Komorowski.

That turned out to be eminently possible, since the Brig wanted to be in at the kill, too. CSM Benton drove us to New Scotland Yard, where we got directed to the Palm Tree Club location, a seedy-looking cellar club in Tottenham.

'The SAS boys are getting ready to go in,' explained Inspector Sewell. 'Front and back simultaneously.' He'd met us one street over, making sure we didn't blow things by appearing in UNIT uniform on the streets. Now we were loitering on a corner, looking down the street, which suddenly emptied of traffic and pedestrians. A nondescript Bedford removal van pulled up outside the Palm Tree Club, disgorging half a dozen men in black fatigues, who promptly blew in the entrance doors and vanished inside. A similar scene took place outside the rear delivery doors. With a few bangs and no gunfire the building was declared clear by radio. The SAS troopers escorted three shaking, quivering, completely wretched-looking men out of the subterranean lair, forcing them to lie full-length on the pavement outside the club.

'No sign of the missing woman, sir,' reported one of the troopers to – oh, it was the adjutant. Must have run out of puppies. He said a bad word, then turned to face our party.

'Sorry, Brigadier, your girl's not here.'

'Where's the rest of them?' asked Inspector Sewell. The adjutant beckoned a trooper over.

'Any more bodies in there?'

'No, sir. These were all there were. Pretty pathetic, really. They burst into tears and wet themselves when the first thunderflash went off.'

A bunch of snivelling cowards. My temper began to rise. By the expression on CSM Benton's face, he wasn't too happy either. The Brig proved how calculating he can be when he strode up to the adjutant, after nodding to the CSM and myself.

'Mike. The normal procedure is for the survivors, such as these men here, to be taken away for interrogation.'

Mike the Adjutant nodded, not expressing any emotion other than Charles Bronsonitis.

'However, these men here are technically "Identified Hostiles". Anyone taking offensive action against UNIT is automatically Identified Hostile.'

Mike the Adjutant began to smile, the kind of smile crocodiles and sharks aspire to.

'Oh I see, sir! Identified Hostile. Also known as Please-Shoot-Me People. No rights under English law or the Geneva Convention.'

Benton tugged my elbow, presenting me with a three-foot unfolded entrenching tool.

'Best I could do at short notice, sir,' he whispered. Yes, well he'd managed to put on his brass knuckledusters, hadn't he. I could read the adjutant's mind, and the Brig's, too: take these three somewhere isolated and beat the truth out of them as quickly as possible.

We ended up back in the Palm Tree Club, our three villains roped into chairs taken from the bar. By this time they were regaining some of their courage, inspired by being present all in a bunch. The middle one began swearing at the Brig. Like I said, in a bunch, like bananas, with the same amount of wit.

'We're not saying anything!' he ended, his swarthy face expressing feigned disgust with us.

'You are holding one of my staff prisoner. I want them released. NOW!' bellowed the Brig, making everyone jump.

The swarthy spokesman indulged himself in a long curse.

'John?' asked the Brig, indicating the gentleman to be taught Lesson Two. I stepped forward and hit the chap flat in the face with my entrenching tool, hard. He fell backwards, taking the chair with him, smacking his head against the floor and shouting in pain. Broken nose and missing teeth, I wouldn't wonder. Concussion, too.

'Gentlemen,' began the Brig, to complete and attentive silence. 'You have absolutely no idea how much trouble you are in. The only chance you have of not "disappearing" is to co-operate with us.'

The two men still upright in chairs looked at each other and then at the Brig.

'We want to know where Sarah Jane Smith is being held. By whom, what weapons they have, what cars they drive, what they look like. Everything.'

The man on the left merely glared at Lethbridge-Stewart. His companion on the right, looking ill, swallowed several times.

'It's not our fault! Costas has gone mental! Him and that scabby bugger - '

His fellow-villain shouted a barrage of insults and curses, which boiled down to "shut up".

'You talk and you're dead!' he seethed.

'S'arnt Major?' said the Brig quietly, indicating the swearer. Benton skipped over and delivered a tremendous right hook to the man's jaw, sending blood, teeth and spittle all over the floor. The nasty sweary man slumped in his chair after that, not paying much attention to anything, really.

'Nice punch!' I enthused, partly for effect.

'Thank you, sir. Been saving it up,' declared Benton, utterly deadpan, staring at the last man.

Predictably, the poor sod broke down completely.

'It's not my fault! It was Scabby! Scabby! It all went pear-shaped when he turned up – o thanks - '

This last was said to Kapitan Komorowski, who appeared with a glass of brandy for the villain, at his elbow.

'Tell me, who is this "Scabby"?' he asked, in a friendly tone utterly different from those the gangster had been hearing for the past half hour.

A few dark, muttered comments were made.

'Smarmy swine in a suit. Showed up a week ago, said he had a business proposition to put to Costas. That's when Costas went barmy.'

More brandy.

'All Costas could think of was what Scabby told him to do, and how to do it, and to do it right quick. No backchat, no banter, just do what Scabby wanted.'

A gentle enquiry from the Pole about what the business proposition was?

'I only wish I knew! It must have been big, to get Costas puddled like that. He put Scabby in charge. Can you believe that? In charge of us, a middle-class tosser like him.'

_"Name"_ mouthed the Brig to Komorowski.

'I bet you did not call him "Scabby" to his face, eh?'

'Wouldn't dare! He turned Big Eddie into a bloody zombie for laughing at him, the creepy sod. He said his name was Magister, Max Magister.'

'That sounds like an alias,' mused Komorowski. The Brig got a troubled look, as if trying to remember something unpleasant that escaped his recall for the moment.

'I bet it was. All his fancy suits can't make up for his bleeding horrible skin. Bloody goateed prima donna.'

More brandy, whilst Benton, the Brig and I exchanged glances.

"Goateed"? "Goateed"! Which smarmy villain looked like the villain from a Dicken's novel? And could control people's minds?

The Master. Benton must regret not putting a nine mill into the bugger's brain at Crouch End.

'The Master!' hissed Benton, rubbing his brass knuckles.

How did this play? I wondered. Komorowski poured himself a brandy, then passed another to the prisoner.

The Master gets into the company of Greek Charlie, and turns him into a subservient little slave, him and maybe some other gang members. Then he sends them to kidnap Sarah Jane. Not Jo Grant – she'd have sent them home in body-bags, and she was immune to any form of control by the Master.

Then what? The Master can guarantee the Doctor will arrive, hot foot, to rescue Sarah, only to fall victim to whatever diabolical plot our resident evil Time Lord had concocted.

'I have an address,' said Komorowski, producing a notepad, passing it to the Brig. With a little more chat, he wheedled names and vehicle descriptions out of the prisoner, who had started to slur his words by now, under a ceaseless flow of brandy.

'Let's go,' said the Brig. We sent in Special Branch to sweep up the human detritus.

The Brig went into a huddle with Inspector Sewell and Mike the Mirthless, both of whom were impressed with the speed we'd got information out of the prisoners. The locum with Special Branch was less impressed with us and the state we'd left the prisoners in, so CSM Benton grasped his elbow painfully tight and led him to one side.

'Just to let you know, _sir_, that these men are automatically under a suspended death sentence for involvement with the kidnap of a UNIT member.' He pointed to me, still carrying the bloody entrenching tool. 'And if Sarah turns out to be injured, the Captain there will come back and kill all three of this lot with his spade.'

I'd have to join the queue.

Having thoroughly scared the doctor, Benton gave me a big wink and we trooped back to our Landrover.

'John, I want you in on the assault,' ordered the Brig. 'You know what the Master looks like, and I believe you've been proofed against any kind of hypnotic control?'

'Yes sir!' I replied, rubbing my hands. Red Card Rules, the Master was going to get riddled before he so much as twitched his lips!

One of the SAS troopers, probably their senior officer, came over to us with a problem.

'We may have to delay until nightfall, Brigadier.'

Four pairs of eyes asked _why?_ straight away.

'This address is a condemned warehouse out in Wapping. No other buildings nearby, no cover at all in fact. Dead ground for a couple of hundred yards.'

Yes, that was a problem. I wasn't trained in hostage rescue but common sense told me you needed to get as close as possible to your hostage before trying to get them away. Otherwise they'd end up dead.

The Brig radioed Nick and told the Assault Platoon to get over to Wapping, deploy around the immediate area and stay out of sight. The SAS Pagoda team were already packing their kit and getting ready to depart, whilst Inspector Sewell was contacting local media and warning them off the story.

'A delay like this is not good,' muttered the Brig. 'The longer the Doctor takes to arrive, the more suspicious the Master will get.'

Having the Master in the mix definitely made the pudding richer. I tried to give an outline of what he'd done to Komorowski, who sucked his teeth and muttered "Magnitogorsk".

A convoy of vehicles set off for Wapping docklands, with an apprehensive me wondering how well – or badly – I'd manage with the Pagoda Team. At the Brig's insistence I'd done a close-bodyguard course with them in Herefordshire, and they weren't impressed. "Best to stand in front of your charge and soak up the bullets" was their summary.

Bluebottle escorted us to Wapping, lights flashing but no sirens, and we drove into an inner cordon, pulling up behind a row of derelict warehouses. More Bluebottle buzzed around, directing us into the dank and musty interior of a Victorian bonded storehouse.

The instant Lethbridge-Stewart put his feet on the floor, who should pop up at his elbow but Lieutenant Munroe, all business-like and efficient.

'Sir! We've knocked a hole in the brickwork at the back. You can see the location with bins.' He offered his own (very expensive) Austrian binoculars.

'Captain Walmsley, sir, you might have to crouch down a bit. Given your height and all,' he told me, deadpan.

The vantage-point was reached by clambering over rotting tarpaulins and ropes and fragments of pallet, and I did have to crouch down to look out.

The East Indian Spice and Fragrance Co. building loomed like an island in a sea, a big gothic pile amidst acres of weeds and brick and rubbish. Over two hundred yards of dead ground on all sides, and doubtless chosen for that reason.

'I've got a section each in warehouses to the north, east and south, sir. All in radio comm. No buildings to the west for anyone to observe from, but the Fox is positioned out there, under camo-netting.'

None of the five gangsters, Greek Charlie or the Master had been seen to enter or leave the building. Nor had Sarah Jane. With diligence, however, Nick and his men had detected two cars and a Ford within the depths of the warehouse interior.

Komorowski remained at the viewpoint, with a notepad, watching carefully, sitting still as stone.

More SAS arrived, carrying sniping rifles, making their way onto roofs and reporting in to their HQ in a Bedford removal van. With the involvement of the Master, technically the Brig had final say on any assault. Instead, showing common-sense and diplomacy, he deferred to Mike the Mirthless.

I made my way over to the Bedford, the rear of which was crammed full of radio equipment, maps, and troopers in black fatigues.

'Ah. The plodder,' exclaimed Mike, displaying all the tact of cholera. 'Captain, find him a weapon, will you?'

One of the troopers clambered out, took me over to the second covert Bedford and asked for a "Hockler". The soldier in charge of this mobile arsenal handed out a Heckler and Koch sub-machine gun, which the Captain handed to me.

'Familiar with these? Okay, here's the magazine release. Safety, auto-selector. Folding stock, release here. We use Swedish nine mill that gives a perfect flat trajectory, so you can aim and hit without deflection up to fifty yards. RPM is six hundred. Not much kick or climb, but there is some, so watch it. Every third round a tracer.'

It was very compact, with a specially-shortened barrel and a plastic foregrip that sat almost under the muzzle.

'No sling?' I asked. The Captain gave me a superior look.

'The SAS don't use slings.'

Really, the sense that they didn't want me along was perceptible. I caught up with Nick.

'Captain Walmsley, how can the lieutenant help you?'

'Try not talking in the third person. Have you got any of your home-made hollow point about you?'

'Sadly no, sir. All nine millimetre ammo is back at Aylesbury.'

'Alright, then, I need a hacksaw.'

My inspiration came from using the hacksaw blade, because the task was awkward enough to make it judder.

Nick, helping out, prodded me with a finger.

'Oh, you _are_ awake! Sir. You got a far-away look on your face. Looking forward to weekend leave?'

'Enough of the undignified disrespect, Munroe. I just had a mild inspiration. How fast could a vehicle from Project Broom get here?'

Seeing I was serious, he mused on the problem.

'Not quickly. A couple of hours on the motorway, then contend with London traffic. Three, maybe four hours.'

Nowhere near quick enough! Nick's musing continued, proving that he was either serious about being serious or was trying to poke fun at his superior officer.

'Of course, Hathern is near the East Midlands airport. You could Windmill your vehicle to Gatwick or Heathrow from there - '

Sarah said in the official de-briefing at New Scotland Yard that she believed the warehouse was suffering an earthquake. The various gangsters believed the ancient building was falling down, apparently. Four abruptly decamped, whilst the windows crazed and fell in, the roof slates came off and the floors bounced up and down.

The doors were also unseated, which helped us in the two assault teams, me tagging along at the back of the one going in via the loading bay. No need for frame charges to blow entrances. Pity – I could have done with a breather after the mad dash over the open ground.

The sniper teams had located the area where Sarah was being held – first floor, in what had been a suite of offices and was now just derelict open plan. At least one other gangster was patrolling on the ground floor. I was told to keep an eye open for the Master, who would most probably be with Sarah, so I followed at the back of the SAS pack rushing upstairs.

They hurled thunderflashes into the long room through the missing panes of glass in the crumbled doorway, just ahead of several bursts of automatic fire downstairs. Mister gangster on patrol not a problem any longer.

Following hard on the explosions, the seven of us burst into the room. Ten yards away, Sarah was gasping and coughing on a swivel chair, secured to it with gaffer tape, a blindfold across her face. A slightly wobbly man, face covered with weeping blisters and open sores, and holding a pistol, tried to raise it. He was beaten to the draw by at least thirty rounds, which knocked him across the floor like a marionette.

He didn't go down, however, until I put three cross-cut .45 rounds into his head, which came apart at the back, and the SAS troopers gave him another thirty rounds.

Two more still unaccounted for, including the Master. A call from one of the sniper teams warned us that one man was now climbing up the fire escape to the roof –

- and now he wasn't, having fallen with the ladder a good fifty feet onto concrete, the ladder having been worked loose of the brickwork by our sonic assault.

That only left the Master.

'Sir!' shouted one of the SAS team, his voice muffled by the gas-mask. He'd found a hole ripped through the floorboards, leading to the floor below, easily big enough to drop down. Three of the team got ready to rappel down, uncoiling rope.

Well, for them, maybe. I'd never manage to squeeze down it, so I turned to go. The other members of the team could come with me to sweep the floor.

And oh dear, there was the Master, having uncontorted himself from a tiny stationery cupboard sitting along the wall. Our attention had been on Sarah and what must have been Big Eddie and then the escape hole.

The SAS troopers promptly remembered what I'd told them – anyone _not_ firing on the Master would be deemed to be under his influence and liable to summary execution on the spot, courtesy Captain Walmsley.

Red Card Rules: we all opened fire. Sarah shuddered in her chair, poor girl, unable to see what was happening around her, and deafened by gunfire. Considering the mess we made of the Master, who suffered over eighty gunshot wounds, her not being able to see was a mixed blessing.

I intended to give him the coup de grace with my dum-dum .45 rounds. If the Doctor could regenerate, so could the Master, except he'd find it tricky with a brain full of mush where grey matter had sat.

Three or four bullets had hit him in the head already, giving him a waxy look. I put a bullet right between the eyes, as the traditionalists like to say (the only area not covered in blood or hair), noticing that his skin rippled in a peculiar way when the rounds struck. Nor was it scabby or scrofulous.

Truth hit me suddenly, and I pulled off my gas-mask to see better. I pulled the knife out of my boot and scraped at the skin around the cadaver's neck, using the flat of the blade.

'Bloody hell! He's cutting the bugger's head off!" exclaimed a trooper behind me.

Hardly. I peeled back a strip of artificial skin, got a good grip and carried on pulling. The Master's "face" came away whole in my hands, leaving a stranger's underneath.

'That's Costas. Greek Charlie,' said a shaky Sarah Jane. A considerate trooper had cut her free, then removed the blindfold. She looked dazed, coughing and blinking. 'John! What are you doing here!'

I gave her a bow.

'Your knight in battledress. I take it that the Master has made his escape?'

She nodded, wincing, at the black eye decorating her right side. I got a case of the quivering stomachs, indicating an oncoming rage. Rather over the top, considering that I'd just shot dead two men responsible for abducting her.

'Yesterday. He got more and more annoyed about the Doctor not appearing, then he began to get anxious. Then he told Costas to take his place, and that he'd call later on about what to do with me.'

We walked her out of the warehouse, then called an ambulance over for her. The men in the warehouse, and the one who fell, could wait for attention, being completely dead.

To the west, where a large gap existed between the ranks of rotting warehouses, two cars were burning. I was proudly told by Nick that the first failed to stop when challenged, so the Fox put a cannon round into the bonnet, which blew the engine block out. Two very shaken gangsters staggered willingly into custody. The second car, despite having a quarter mile of open ground to manouevre in, collided with the first. Both men came out shooting, one with a pistol, the other with a shotgun. The SAS sniper teams dropped both of them on the spot, and the Fox put a burst of machine gun fire into the engine.

The joker in our pack had been the flat-bed truck from Project Broom, the one that the Doctor gimmicked up as an ultrasonic projector. I reasoned that it would give the delapidated warehouse a severe shaking, sufficient to distract anyone inside long enough for an assault team to get close. Airlifted in, it allowed us to free Sarah well ahead of nightfall. She might not have survived another night of captivity, not if the Master realised the Doctor wasn't going to turn up.

There were more details from the debriefing. Sarah said that the Master was not a well man; his skin condition appeared to be one symptom of a more serious illness, he had trouble breathing one morning, and experienced a seizure.

Good, was the consensus.

Big Eddie was the man who Sarah had thrown a kettle of water over in her flat. She regretted it afterwards, but he'd had an axe. Anyway, he didn't appear to feel pain, or any emotion at all for that matter. The Master seemed to have turned him into a brainless slave, from what she could see.

What did the Master try to trap the Doctor? Sarah couldn't help there, and not for the first time asked where he was.

Harry had better news when we called Aylesbury from New Scotland Yard at Sarah's frantic behest. The Doctor had improved dramatically, well enough to sit up in bed and have guests. Sarah choked up on the phone when she spoke, leading me to sit outside the room to give her some privacy.

Back at Aylesbury for a late meal in the canteen, I went to see the Doctor, who fretted at being confined to bed by Harry.

I filled him in on details, then asked the inevitable question: why?

He rubbed one cheek with a finger, a tic he has when thinking .

'I can't be certain, John, not being privy to the Master's record of regenerations, but from what you describe, his body is beginning to "run down", having reached it's physical limit.'

'He can't regenerate?'

'Not if this is his final, twelfth form. No.'

So a Time Lord only got twelve bites at the cherry, then. The Doctor hadn't finished.

'He can still continue to live, in declining health, for several decades. However - Aha! I see the reason behind Sarah's kidnap – _body-jacking_.'

He had to explain that one.

'The Master could survive by taking over another person's body, assimilating them and externally becoming them.'

I made a face, and the Doctor laughed ruefully.

'Quite! Naturally, he wanted the body of another Time Lord to assimilate. He cannot travel to Gallifrey, so he looks for a Time Lord whose location he knows.'

'You. And to get you rushing into an ambush, unprepared, he kidnapped Sarah.'

'One must be grateful for small mercies,' he said. 'If I hadn't been ambushed already, then I would have been compelled to rescue Sarah.'

I next encountered Sarah when visiting her in the Doctor's lab with a package.

'Oh thank you - ' she said, her female acquisitiveness to the fore.

'It's not a present!' I interrupted. 'It's my handwritten report on your abduction and rescue, all twelve thousand words. To be typed up _soonest_!'

Oh it was good to have her back!


End file.
